Content note: This memoir chapter contains descriptions of a childhood house fire, severe burn injuries, trauma, and possible domestic violence.

Outside, the night was clear, the stars bright overhead, and the full moon washed the sky in pale light. For a little while, everything seemed calm. It was “The quiet before the storm.”

It was such an ordinary evening, the kind that gives no warning before life changes forever. Sunshine was three years old. She wore warm pajamas while her mother, Martha, moved quietly through their dim cabin in a flowing white gown covered with tiny flowers. Martha was getting ready to pour kerosene into the fireplace.

Something about that moment made Martha uneasy, though Sunshine was too young to understand why.

Then, before Sunshine could blink, a trail of fire traveled along the stream of kerosene and climbed onto Martha’s nightgown. The flames moved quickly, wrapping around her clothes like a snake. Martha screamed as the fire spread across her body.

At three years old, Sunshine could not understand what she was seeing. All she saw was a bright orange light. She knew her mother was burning. She knew her mother’s screams filled the room. She knew she was terrified.

Martha fell to the floor while flames still covered her. Sunshine’s father came from somewhere Sunshine could not see. He threw a blanket over Martha and beat at the flames until they finally died down.

Sunshine stood there trembling and crying. Then the crying stopped. Shock took over.

After that night, Sunshine went silent. Fear and the confusion of being a small child blurred much of what happened. Yet one image stayed with her: her father throwing the blanket over her mother and fighting the flames. Sunshine doesn’t remember Martha being placed in a tub of ice. She doesn’t remember her mother almost dying.

For years, questions followed Sunshine.

Where had her father been before he came into the room? Why had he not been there when the fire began? How long had Martha been burning before he tried to save her?

Sunshine was too young to know the answers. In their little house, only three people lived: Sunshine’s mother, Martha; Sunshine’s father; and Sunshine. As Sunshine grew older, she learned and witnessed more about the violence that had existed in her parents’ relationship. That knowledge changed the way she remembered the fire.

Sunshine began to wonder whether the fire had truly been an accident.

She did not know what happened in that room before the flames began. She did not know whether her father saw Martha burning before he tried to help her. Nor does she remember if there was an argument or fight before the fire. She did not know whether Martha remembered enough to tell the truth later. Those answers were buried with Sunshine’s parents, and Sunshine may never know them.

Martha survived, but nothing was ever the same.

Most of Martha’s burns covered her abdomen, though her back and lower legs were spared. Her left hand was badly burned as well. Her injuries were so severe that she nearly died. At the hospital, doctors worked quickly to treat the burns and cool her body. Soon afterward, Martha went into shock.

To save Martha’s abdomen — and perhaps her life — the doctors took skin from her legs and used it for grafts. The grafts left large rectangular scars on her body, lasting reminders of what she had survived. Martha remained unconscious for months, and her recovery was long and painful.

She carried those scars for the rest of her life.

In a different way, Sunshine did too.

What burned that night did not end in that one-room house. The fire left marks on Martha’s body, but it also left fear, silence, and unanswered questions inside Sunshine. Sunshine had loved her father. He had held her, spoiled her, and made her feel cared for. As a child, Sunshine did not want to believe that the same man could hurt her mother.

But love did not erase harm.

The truth about that night — whether it was a terrible accident or something darker — remained a secret Sunshine’s family carried to the grave.

Author’s Note

This chapter is based on Sunshine’s earliest memories and on what she later learned from her mother and family history. Like many childhood memories, parts of it are incomplete and shaped by what Sunshine could understand at the time. Sunshine tells this story to honor Martha’s survival and to acknowledge the lasting effect that night had on both of their lives.

The Quiet Before the Storm was originally published in Build Your Voice on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Note: All names and specific locations have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved. This story is a work of creative non-fiction based on personal experiences.

Sunshine’s mother doesn’t know what lies ahead for her. Martha unknowingly prepares her daughter and herself for storms she cannot see. This is where it began; understand where that strength came from.

Martha’s hair was nappy and thick, but a straightening comb worked wonders. Her eyes were small and dark brown, and she had a lazy eye. Martha went through so much that she did not let being cross-eyed stop her from shining. It wasn’t an issue; it may have been normal back in the day, most people had been cross-eyed or had lazy eye in this town. Her skin was a light caramel color. Just being light-skinned was all that mattered when it came to appearance back then. Martha loved eating the red (clay) dirt. Red clay was a popular sweet in the Deep South.

Martha was born and raised in the tiny town of Eutaw, Alabama. (The town was so small.If you blinked, you would have missed the town.) The roads were dirt roads and led to farms and homes. She lived on a farm with her four sisters, two brothers, mother, and father. Her father worked the land as a farmer, picking cotton and tobacco while caring for livestock. In return, Martha’s father received living quarters, food, and protection from the other white people who were still upset because slavery had ended. White people still could not accept the fact that black people were human beings and not livestock. The living quarters were not really fit for a human being. Many black people had to make do with what was given to them back in that era.

The house was made of tins and scraps of wood. They were called shacks, but it was home. There were no lights and no running water inside the house. The shack had just enough room for sleeping, eating, and cooking. Candles and lanterns were used for light. The wood stoves were used for heat, cooking, and light.

There were no bathrooms inside the homes. When they needed to relieve themselves, a deep hole was dug in the ground, thin wooden boards were placed around the hole, and an opening was made just high enough to sit down and wide enough to use. The walls and roof were created with the same thin wood. It was like using the bathroom on an airplane, only in the dark. There was just enough room to squat; this was called an outhouse. There was only a dark hole to sit on top of and hope you don’t get bitten by a snake. The children and women had to use it before dark. After dark, no one was allowed to use the outhouse. At night, when the children had to use the bathroom, there was a pile or bucket inside the shack. It was for the family to use; it was emptied in the morning. The children were not allowed to eat or drink anything after 6 pm.

Food was the animal parts (scraps) that white people did not eat at this time. The unwanted parts were the pigs’ feet, the internal organs (intestines, stomach, stomach linings), scrotums (testicles), and the blood. The blood was made into a dish called blood pudding.

The skin was made into fried skins. The pig’s ears, feet, and snouts were made into a stew.

The chicken backs, gizzards, hearts, neck bones, and ham hocks were added to greens for flavor and for meat. The cow’s tongues were cooked on an open fire. The pig’s brains were added to the eggs to ensure everyone gets to eat (The children didn’t know they were eating the pig’s brains). The pigs’ head was cleaned, the hair was burned off, and it was cooked for two days until it formed a gel, and the meat was tender. After it is cooked, all the meats, including tongues and other parts, are mixed with the fat and gel from the hog’s head, creating what is called hoghead cheese. It looks clear and sliced, with pieces of meat and peppers, and has a pickled taste. No animal parts were ever wasted, not even blood. This was survival.

Martha’s father never got a chance to go to school. The land was covered with many rows of tobacco and cotton. The younger children were somewhat aware of life’s struggles.

Yet the children still enjoyed exploring many things. One of the most popular games was stickball and dodgeball; the girls enjoyed playing house. Children, mostly the girls, played house and picked the landowners’ plums and grapes to make the make-believe supper. The supper consisted of honeysuckles for the juice; you would slowly pull the stem at the bottom of the flower. When doing this, it draws out the style, creating a drop of nectar. The drop of nectar was placed on the tongue and enjoyed. For the greens, picking the best leaves was important. You had to choose the pretty green leaves about the size of your hand. To get the favor, you would chew the juice out of it, then spit out the leaves. For dessert, it was plums, grapes, watermelon, apples, or anything that they could reach without climbing.

The children in town played stickball with small rocks and a stick. Every kid had at least one dog. Dogs were never allowed in the house. The dogs were fed with table scraps. The Lord only knows what they ate in the woods.

The main objectives for black people were survival and making ends meet. There weren’t opportunities at that time for black men, except working in the fields. The men in this town were farm workers and did other odd jobs. The woman’s job was to stay home, keep the house clean, and take care of the children. Cooking became every married woman’s primary duty. The woman had to make sure the food was ready before the man came home. The worst thing a woman can do is not have dinner on the table when the man comes home. The women would get beaten, choked, called names, and threatened with death. From one household to the next, it was the same story.

When the man of the house came home, after working in the tobacco fields, they smell of dirt and fresh tobacco. Their hands were dark green-stained, dirty, and sticky due to handling and hanging tobacco leaves. Their clothes smelled musky, soaked with sweat and tobacco. Then, to top it off, there was the disgusting smell of alcohol fuming from their pores.

Martha witnessed her father coming home and beating her mother many times. This is the beginning of the first signs of a generational curse. When he was intoxicated, he became angrier.

Martha’s mother was the only person he could take it out on. He was angry about everything.

Not having a house of bricks, but one made of tin. The bathroom was in an outhouse. His family was drinking water from the same pump that the animals used. Rows of food crops still, his family went to bed hungry several times. What man won’t be angry? For not being able to provide for his family, no matter how hard he works. The belittling of his manhood every day, and there was nothing he could say. Martha’s father had to work all day to earn enough for one day’s meal. “Why would he not be angry?” Martha thought to herself. Martha’s father beat her mother until she died of a heart attack.

Strange! How black women died of heart attacks and falling down stairs.

Martha: The Roots of Resilience was originally published in Readers Hope on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Note: This story is inspired by true events. Names, locations, and specific identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.

Martha’s father, Earl, was a mean, angry, hot-tempered man in Sunshine’s eyes. The first time Sunshine saw him, he was leaning back in an old wooden chair in front of the fence, a solitary figure against the green pasture where three cows lay resting, heads up, behind him. On the right side of his chair sat a cold can of beer. On the left, a glass spit jar, half-full and gleaming in the sun. Leaning against the post behind him, the barrel of a single-shot rimfire rifle caught the light, a silent promise of violence.

To a child, Earl looked like a storm waiting to break. He was a man who spoke in shouts and moved with the sudden, jerky energy of a coiled snake. Sunshine learned early that when Earl’s eyes narrowed, the air in the room grew thin. When he raised his voice, the dogs stopped barking. When he reached for the rifle, even the cows seemed to hold their breath.

But Martha did not shrink.

While other children cowered, Martha stood tall. She was high-strung, bold, and possessed a fire that matched her father’s own. She didn’t whisper when Earl shouted; she shouted back. She didn’t hide when he reached for the rifle; she stared him down. Sunshine watched in awe as her mother walked right up to the storm and refused to be blown away.

Martha learned to survive Earl not by disappearing, but by becoming just as dangerous. She learned that if you showed fear, you were prey. If you showed teeth, you were a predator.

Years later, when Martha became a mother herself, Sunshine saw that same fire in her eyes. It was the same look she had seen on the porch: a look that said, “I am not afraid of you.” This was the lesson Martha passed down — not how to hide, but how to stand your ground. Even when the world was full of men like Fred, Martha remembered how to face a man like Earl.